excerpts FOREWORD TO A LOVE NOVEL You have been written to meNot to my depression, my sadnessBut to the true I, powerful – and ruthless. I look at your fresh girlish bodyAnd a tempest of infernal thoughts rages through me My blood and my bones dictate everything I have to doI will not refrain from any dastardly deed Your frail being was written to this strong IAnd you are the prey I have long waited to lay my hands on. I play along at night – and I singLike an accomplice to crime I look at my sex, wildly erect;It will push past your suave thighs and will leave indelible traces. I already am happySo many nights of torments, fever and deliriumSo many boils that have swollen in my soulWill then pop – and flow into you with my first ejaculation. THE POEM OF OIL-ANOINTED EPHEBES The pupil is a bowWoman knows the arrow in her glanceNaked ephebes their bodies anointed with oilTurn yellow on the beach whereThe pupil is a bowAnd woman knowing her glance to be arrowSounds her flint bones foremost the boneThe obscure bone that, with grinning teeth,The horde of oil-anointed ephebes crave. Ghostly, the big man of sexual disastersPasses by with the round of keys in his hand.The ephebes do not know him but they bow to himAnd he blesses them with a smile, a sacramentWith the grand and extremely tragic sacrament;From now on they can lick the virginal gatesAnd voyage inside the arcadesOr deplore the disappointment of eternal disappointments. On the sun-baked beachThe naked women of the apocalypseAre vainly struggling to dry upThe moist wound inherited from the scriptures;And as the men were long lost in warsThe women naked and still ravenousThe mad women of the apocalypseHave lured the horde of oil-anointed ephebes;And still hoping to heal the wound in their thighsTheir mouths with beautiful angel teethSucked at the fresh and round fruitGrown on the bodies of the oil-anointed Ephebes of today and of mythology. THE POEM OF PREDESTINED EPHEBESto Saşa Pană Predestined for monstrous sexual attemptsThe ephebes with slender bones, with flute bonesThe ephebes who will preserve solely the memory of the weapon's bangBecause it is only in the memory that this exasperating search can still endureThis sick desire to return to the fabric of maternal darkness.In bedrooms, young mothers are like plantsLike crude unveiling miracles A thigh unconsciously sliding out of trapezes of blue silkThe thigh naked to the hip of young mothersAnd the ephebes with flute bones, with aluminum bonesPredestined for monstrous sexual attemptsFuriously pass their fingers through their blood and through their memoryAnd they climb breathlessly to the sweet and poisonous plant of the young mothers.There should be an anthem for warmth, another for gliding.Only in the suave heat of maternal sleeping rooms thatThese monstrous flowers of sexuality can get bornThese superb attempts at love and deathWhen the hand slides to the hip on the naked thigh of young mothersAnd through the windows resounds the bang of the father's weapon turned at the tragic moment of ejaculation. BANKRUPTCY OF BIOLOGICAL TRADE The withered woman with maybugs grafted on her ovariesHeard roosters crow at dawn: cock-a-doodle-dooAnd she woke up all sweaty and cried out affrightedShe had dreamt of a red bull with its sex in its hornsA wave of putrid blood then raged insideAnd her body suddenly filled with miasmaAwakening the pale teenager she had bought the night beforeAnd he, disgusted, ran out of town across the fieldTo wash his defiled face in the grass dewHis defied hands to wash alsoThe hands that he had dipped into the womanLike in the bogs at the outskirts of the cityThe red bull with its sex in its hornsDreamt about by the withered woman with maybugs grafted on her ovaries. THAT YEAR THE OLD SETTLEMENTS QUIVERED A whirl of star-dusted bones – and thenThe girls in the yellow sunset saluted the boys going to their deathAnd on the city walls they repined like in the bible and in legendsIf only one of them had had a seed planted in her wombThey would have all reared the offspring, made him grow into a manFor the long winter nights to followWhen their heart even if unwilling to give itselfStill needed someone to ask for itTo woo itAnd feel tormented for not having it. The girls rummaged the marshes around the bloated housesLooking for human seed from the time when unheededIt had flown down with the swill, with excrement and offalBy strange processes of onanism(Human seed, once like a pearl necklace, like a jewel,Was now green and putrid)The girls ravenously put their mouths to the bog,Which they fully drained, drop by dropAfterwards lying with their bellies up in the sunThey waitedAs they wait only in the bible and in legends,But when it was time to give birth to infants for long winter nightsAnd for an exhausting craving of theirs, Between their thighs there poured forth but a legion of green frogs.On the banks toads waited for them croaking festivelySo, frog lovemaking started right there under the eyes of the girlsWho hectically kissed like mad all cylinder-shaped objectsAnd burst into tears clutching between their thighs gigantic treesThat in that historic moment knew eventually how to do their duty.Livid, the death-goers gazed at the sinister and final farceAnd they answered the salute of the girls in the yellow sunsetBy lifting in the air The same armsThat oncePlaintively implored the girlsIn the quiet nights of the city;Now these arms were filled with the dynamite tit of the grenadeAnd the boys ejaculated for fear experiencing a terrible pleasureThat mingled love with death. The girls dropped to their kneesAnd deliriously offered their wild bodies to madnessThe boys going to their death might still have stopped for a secondBut it was too lateThe sky above had begun to tumble downAnd the dynamite tit of the grenade made them ejaculate for the last timeBlack sperm out of which the first flames of the apocalypse rose in the air. MAD ANICA Anica, daughter of Crooked Peter, a beautiful womanYet always craving for more of the worldly stuffWould wait for her husband to leave homeAnd then go sit at the gate and lure in passers-by;At first, these were many and very gladBut she quickly drained them of sapAnd started looking for others ever more ravenousAnd no matter how many she just couldn't get enough. Then Anica, daughter of Crooked Peter, discovered a garden of cucumbersShe dug, watered and tended them to grow fineAt night she would walk among them singing amorously, caressing and kissing themAnd the cucumbers grew big and strong like horsesAnica, daughter of Crooked Peter, after making love to each, Slyly sold them to the one-time impotent passers-by. When they learnt the truthThe whole village threw up all night longThe following day they spied on her, and caught her in the dirty act;Anica, daughter of Crooked Peter did not die under a hail of stonesShe is still living not far in the Bushtenari communeLocked somewhere behind cold stone wallsShe is huge, drinks plum brandy, smells bad And speaks only of our Lord Jesus Christ. PRESENTATION OF THE LEGENDARY HEROto S. Perahim Boukshe'n Bakshe of Brebua.k.a CaciambauaLiked to talk about women all the time;He-he-he, I know someYou can jump on like you jump on a treeAnd lost in thought he would repeat after a while:Like you jump on a tree. The sun rose early and so beautiful in the countrysideBoukshe'n Bakshe the cowman merrily took his herd grazingOut of the village only country and godFar, very far reapers sangAnd church bells rang.Boukshe'n Bakshe listened, his staff propped in the groundAnd a mystic shiver went from his head to his toesThe dewy grass cracked freshly under his feetThe cows grazed greedily bellowing gently with joyThere were widowed and virgin cowsSome most beautifulDarned Boukshe'n Bakshe started making love to themThey had such a nice sex yellow like a slice of pumpkin And they seemed very pleased with their human lover. But one day the peasants – what did they know? – caught him in the act and beat him upAnd that put him down for a long timeAfter which he'd start now and then:He-he-he, I know someYou can jump on like you jump on a treeAnd lost in thought he would repeat after a while:Like you jump on a tree. GHEORGHITZA THE SHOEMAKER For some time Gheorghitza the shoemaker, a boy round twenty not yet draftedWith a silver earring in his left earHad been keeping his eyes glued to the door of the workshop(The beautiful, pale daughter of the boyar used to pass that way)And he, Gheorghitza would give a heart-breaking sigh. Gheorghitza my boy (his mother pitied him)I know what's ailing youBut don't lose your shirt and give it no more thoughtOr you'll waste yourself for good.Yet Gheorghitza went on thinkingAnd pining. His lips burnt with fever when one eveningA man from the court b
